The 10 Dishes That Made My Career: Frédéric Morin of Joe Beef

How the Kardashian-tweeting, backyard-smoking pro's unconventional wisdom won over the hearts and minds (and stomachs) of the food illuminati.

Erik Leijon

Photos courtesy Joe Beef

Joe Beef’s Frédéric (Fred) Morin is a "great chef because he isn’t one."

At least that’s according to his cohort, David McMillan, the other half of Joe Beef. “He’s a great wood worker, gardener, dad, tinkerer,” he says. “Fred always takes the detour and enjoys the scenery.”

That kind of unconventional compliment from Morin's creative partner speaks volumes about the duo's philosophical outlook in the kitchen—a worldview that has informed their mini-empire in Montreal’s St-Henri neighborhood. There’s the famed Joe Beef, which opened in 2005, and is often regarded as your favorite chef’s favorite restaurant (Anthony Bourdain and David Chang have vouched for this palace of gluttony). Then there’s the adjacent Beef-lite Liverpool House, as well as wine bar Le Vin Papillon. Local grocery stores also carry a few items baring the Joe Beef name, which is helpful since it can still take months to get a reservation.

Morin and McMillan have also managed to establish the brand by following their own intuition. Beef’s décor is more informal than upscale, the revolving menu is scrawled on a blackboard, and in the past they’ve espoused the virtues of economical items such as Spam. Musings on the tinned treat, instructions to build a backyard smoker, and non-food stories like a recap of Fred’s favorite train trips can be found in their book, The Art of Living According to Joe Beef: A Cookbook of Sorts, which came out in 2012.

"Not caring about making something delicious and just throwing it on the pan—it’s like a handjob without looking."

Chef Hugh Acheson, who used to work at Montreal’s BuonaNotte when Morin was across the street at Globe, has his own theory as to why Joe Beef became an institution: “It is a restaurant where, from the moment you get there, you just want to be there—to enjoy it, to relish in it, to be sated by it. To me, it is the most palpably authentic restaurant in North America. I think that Joe Beef is now carving a path to a true Quebecois cuisine. Rich, and maybe a little gluttonous, but really rad.”

But Morin doesn’t necessarily speak like a chef with a world-renowned restaurant: He’s a philosopher with non-sequiturs. His Twitter feed, by his own admission, borders on incoherence, with the odd tweet (or two) about Kim Kardashian. The same free association applies to his views about the dogma of recipes.

“I find the go-to recipes fuck people up a little,” he observes. “Because if someone is missing an ingredient, they’re like, ‘we can’t do it.’ You have to have a better sense of your culinary environment than that.” His advice for anyone looking to create a great meal isn’t to follow any golden rule—just care enough to go the extra mile.

“Not caring about making something delicious and just throwing it on the pan—it’s like a handjob without looking,” he says. “If you’re technically sound, if you’re generous, if you’re kind and you have empathy for the people you work with and cook for, it will go well. But I can’t say it’s my famous Cobb salad or lobster spaghetti that will make it happen.”

Here, the 40-year-old Quebecer touches on the meals that made a lasting mark on his life.

My mother's moules frites

From my youth, I have very specific memories of my grandmother making gooseberry pie, or my mom making moules frites because she’s from Belgium. Steamed mussels were one thing on the outside, but inside they were moist, wet, and smelled like a boat. Smell is a strong evoker of memories; we’re triggered by smells. Most people our age—I’m 40 years old—had parents that were really busy, so mom and dad were at work. I think many in our generation lack food memories and we wish we had them.When my mom made pigs in a blanket, the act of opening the Pillsbury dough by knocking it on the counter—that’s a deep memory.

Homemade squash soup for my kids

I don’t force anything on my kids (ages three, five, and seven), and since I’ve done that they’ve been eating better. All of a sudden my son sits down and asks for a certain type of cheese that we the adults eat. Taste is mostly psychological. They won’t want to try the cheese, but then they’ll see the cool neighbor kid try it and suddenly they love it. They love squash soup. All kinds of soup, really. Two weeks ago I went to career day at their school, speaking to my kid’s first grade class. So many kids in his class said they didn’t like pizza and cake. It made me think, ‘no wonder my kid doesn’t like things that are too sweet.’

Salmon tartare with avocado, taro chips, and corn relish (1990s)

When I worked at Toqué! in 1995, it was a dish there that was super evocative of that era. To me it was tasty, but no one would dare do it in a restaurant today because it’s not cool anymore. At that time we used to go out to L'Express and we’d have their croque-monsieur, which was their grilled cheese with fries, then a half-mustard, half-mayonnaise with pickles. Those were dishes from that time that marked me very much.

Chicken with morel sauce, cooked in a bladder at Bocuse (Lyon)

Photo: bocuse.com

I went to Bocuse in France with my wife around five years ago. I loved it; it’s very comfortable, the food is delicious and quite democratic despite the price. There’s cheap wine, big wine, all sorts. Even if he's depicted everywhere, there’s salt and pepper on the tables. The structure of the meals and the ingredients are top notch, and although a bit formal, the staff is very likeable. I gave him our cookbook and that was tops.

Working at Globe for a few days, then going back for dinner and having Dave cook for me was memorable. It was delicious and very proper. He made it for me about 20 years ago, when I just started working there. It was pretty simple, but to this day I remember it fondly. The other dish from then was a piece of hake with chowder, but it was done perfectly. That’s why you don’t win people with dishes. It’s like if you make hot dogs: If you cut slices on the skin so they curl up, melt the cheese, crisp some bacon to go along with it, and butter the bun before serving, then you’ve really made somebody happy. But you can’t do those things if you don’t intend to please someone or host them.

All things smoked from my smoker

For me it was always smoked stuff. That was my hobby as a teenager. Ribs, smoked meat, cheese, and nuts. Things that need and like smoke, like bacon and fish. I once had olives that were smoked and that was not good. My grandpa got that with my mom for my 14th birthday. Sometimes your family nails it, gift-wise, and sometimes they don’t. That time they nailed it. It was what I always wanted and it became one of my favorite things.

One thing that I really enjoy doing is taking shit and making gold. The alchemy of taking stuff from the ground and turning it into something—not like the farmer to the table, that’s a story for the media—but just for me. I love having my salad and serving it with the fresh cheese we make and a vinaigrette made with our herbs and vinegar. If I get into pottery or make tables, it’ll be because I like the idea of taking clay or wood and making something. All the dishes I ever made were like that. You take nothing and you make something.

Sometimes a dish will be memorable because someone made it for you. I had an omelet at Le Passe-Partout about 15 years ago that was delicious and it still sticks in my memory. I value the omelet above all and I really admire the technique.

And sometimes it’s about making a dish at an unexpected time that counts. It’s more the intention than the dish. The steak can be overcooked but I’ve eaten Peruvian barbecue at Jeanne-Mance park with friends and family while people around me are playing soccer and having fun, and I’ll remember that more than any steakhouse grass fed this or that. We shouldn’t be so picky if something is a little overcooked. Some people are like: ‘I only have my BBQ like this and my avocados have to be this type.’ One day there will be no food left and you’ll look foolish if you’re so used to one thing.

Spaghetti Homard-Lobster at Joe Beef

Discovery is interesting, but it’s a thing in its own right. Then there are classics, and they make people happy. If you’re paying $150 to be happy, you deserve to be happy, and it doesn’t make me a sellout making lobster spaghetti every night. You pay lots of money to see a concert, but do you really want Keith Richards to play his new solo album instead of the Stones?

The urge to constantly create is killing crafts. I’ve had this conversation several times the last few weeks with a young skateboard kid that works for us and another chef: You spend your first ten years getting your skills, grinding on the ramp. Then you can get creative, but after ten years you realize being creative means a slight off-tuning of something that will change the direction of your career. It doesn’t mean you play the guitar upside down or with drum sticks. There are the Tim Heckers of this world whose job it is to move the machines forward and give us things to think about, but it serves a different purpose than a live Dead show.

Oysters at Honest Weight (Toronto)

What makes the dozen oysters on your plate legendary are the ones that ended up in the garbage beforehand. The difference between great restaurants and shit restaurants is that they both do shit, but the great restaurant doesn’t serve it. With a bin of oysters, some will be limp and won’t be able to make it outside of water. They won’t make the plate. Some are weird looking, and they won’t make it either. Even the best oysters from the best sources have ones you’ll throw out. They’re not going to start x-raying oysters at the plant to find out if they’re good.

We have the best oysters we can find, but if they’re not up to our standards once we open them, they don’t go in a soup or something—they just go in the garbage. But some places you’ll go to will have an idiot shucking them and you’ll be served a bad one. The first time I had a perfectly shucked oyster was a memorable time. It was my friend John Bil, an excellent shucker out in Toronto at Honest Weight. The first time he showed me how to shuck an oyster, it went from cool spit in a half-rock to deliciously textured, maritime meaty creature.

Roast duck with honey and red wine, with brie and a pear from his backyard tree

It was my pick from the book My Last Supper: 50 Great Chefs and Their Final Meals. That’s the plan, although you never know how you’re going to go. I’ll make it, and it’s not because I don’t trust other people, but I don’t trust other people. (Laughs) Dave cooks well. Marco (Marc-Olivier Frappier) cooks well. Charles-Antoine (Crête) cooks well. Derek Dammann does too, and now I don’t want to forget any names but there are others. They cook well and have control of their pans. For other people there are a lot of extra steps involved in making something. But I also can’t be a full-on food guy when half the planet doesn’t have enough to eat. That’s why I’m happy when I go camping with chicken noodle soup.

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